


come fuck this shit right

by WannabeAlien



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Character Study, Depression, Gender Dysphoria, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Not Wanda Friendly, Paranoia, Steve Rogers critical, Trans Character, Trans Tony Stark, he's trying guys but shit it's hard, i really don't like steve's choices, i'm gonna dump a lot of bullshit on this poor boy, like at all, no beta we die like men, ohhhhhh boy where do we begin, slow healing, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 04:17:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WannabeAlien/pseuds/WannabeAlien
Summary: "Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them." -Ray Bradbury, Dandelion WineAn introspective look at what it's like to live with mental illness when everyone refuses to see the evidence laid at their feet.





	come fuck this shit right

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this fic works a little differently from others that I've attempted before. The issue with writing for me is mostly that I start a project with ideas which are swept away by perpetual exhaustion and chronic brain static that won't let me focus. So this fic is actually going to move along as I do, depicting real-life events that happen to me but with Tony Stark as the main character. This won't have a regular update schedule and no "regular" chapter lengths. Chapter one is the intro and throughout the fic there will be excerpts from the book Rough Diamonds by Dolores Mosquera, a book about BPD given to me by my therapist to help me cope and learn to live with my diagnosis. 
> 
> There are a few things about this fic that I have yet to set in stone, which I could use your help with. If you like this fic or relate to it, do the usual kudos and subscribe or whatever, but I'd like your comments as well. Should this take place pre or post Ultron? Pre or post Civil War? Do you guys want a ship in this? If so which one? Do you guys want me to touch on how difficult it is to maintain a relationship when you have BPD? Jarvis or Friday? I'd really like to know if you guys even really want some semblance of an actual plot or if you guys want disjointed looks into the struggles of just, daily life? 
> 
> Let me know what you want?
> 
> Tags will be updated as I go, the more people we run into the better the tags will get.

Tony was in constant motion.

Anyone who had spent more than 5 minutes with him could tell you that, but it was never true in the way they meant it. Tony was in constant motion, but it extended past the more grand gestures he made, past the general gesticulation when he talked or the impatient way he would tap at the counters and table when waiting for his coffee. It extended even past the way he would bounce his leg during meetings in such a way that Pepper would glare at him for until he noticed her and stopped. Tony was in constant motion and it caused him agony because he wasn’t entirely sure why, or how he could stop. If anyone had bothered to notice it, the minute ways he would shift and twitch and frown, Tony wasn’t entirely sure what he would say to explain it off. Luckily no one ever seemed to notice, or if they did they never said anything. Realistically Tony knew he was in constant motion because something inside of him hurt, something between his joints and buried deep under his skin in every crevice was causing him a deep constant ache that was uncomfortable if he sat still for too long. People seemed to think that he was an insomniac, or that he didn’t like to sleep because he could be doing a thousand other things instead. People closer to the truth would say that he didn’t sleep because his brain moved too fast and couldn’t shut down enough to allow him rest, or that the nightmares were so bad that he often didn’t bother. Honestly, those two reasons more than most were closer to the truth, but every single part of trying to sleep was utterly downright painful. Attempting to lay still and find a comfortable position was impossible, and when he finally managed to get to sleep staying asleep was useless. He often felt pulled in several different directions, constantly waking up and wiggling and eventually giving up when it became too much, the sheets too warm, the sensations dancing across his skin too much to bear.

Tony had never entirely been sure what was wrong, had some semblance of an idea that this weird thing he had always seemed to have was some sort of mental illness, but he never really did anything about it. Perhaps it was paranoia, or violent distrust of others after being used and abused so often in the past by everyone who claimed to want to get to know him. Logically he knew about patient privacy and all the red tape involved in something like therapy but still....he was scared. The disconnect he felt between him and his own body was better than facing the fear that made his hands shake thinking about telling someone else about his “thing” because he thought he was dealing with his “thing” quite well all things considered. Sure he had his moments, the manic episodes where some of his best and worst decisions mingled and meshed and exploded horrifically in public view where the tabloids could then rip him to shreds, but he always managed to crawl his way back on the edge to safety. Tony learned quickly that he did his best work alone, not for a lack of trying. People weren’t prepared in any sense to actually be able to deal with him, and sometimes he really couldn’t blame him. The excitement of working with others fanned a small flame that would always end up a wildfire no matter how hard he tried to contain it, and between his rambling and the easy way he grabbed at others when the experiments were a success, it made them realize that something about Tony Stark was distinctly unhinged.

He tried his best though. He handled things the way he could, fought through the pain, and what did he get? An ungrateful bunch of overgrown children who seemed to feel entitled to his time and money. Guilt over the accusations of his team immediately flooded him and he twitched, foot shifting to slide over the carpet as something in his upper thigh twinged unpleasantly.

“Anthony?”

Coming back to himself sharply he glanced up, focusing on the woman sitting a few feet away. One leg was crossed over the other in a position that Tony himself had never really been able to do comfortably, making him wonder if it actually was as comfortable as people made it seem. Her expression seemed to search his for a moment, smile patient and kind as she leaned back. In a weird way Tony liked to think she was the perfect model of a modern therapist, with vaguely untamed gray hair and sleek glasses. Dressed for comfort over professionalism and reeking of calm. He glanced back down at the book in his hands that she had just handed to him, licking his dry lips, he wondered if it was still a viable option to run away and pretend none of this had happened. His “thing” didn’t really need a name (no matter how desperately he wanted it to have one, to have a reason, to have an explanation.) He rubbed a thumb across the cover, gazing at the artful picture strategically placed on the left side so that only half the face was shown.

“Sorry I....Sarah….I don’t know about this. This sounds….”

What? What did it sound like? Extreme? Impossible? He found feel his heart beating roughly in his chest, pounding hard enough that he felt his entire body pulse with it. His face tingled, though he didn’t know if he was actually flushing.

“Anthony, I understand. It’s...scary. It’s a bunch of scary words. But this diagnosis is highly stigmatized and it really isn’t what you’ve heard in the media or online. This is not some....crazy made up thing, you know? It’s a trauma diagnosis that is very real and that a lot of very real people suffer from. I’m here to help you learn about it, about yourself, about how to deal with this all.”

“I just, I don’t understand? This seems a bit much is all, I mean yeah sure there’s the panic attacks and the disassociation and the disconnect and the static in my head but….Borderline Personality Disorder?”

Rough Diamonds, A Glimpse Into Borderline Personality Disorder by Dolores Mosquera stared back at him unassumingly, only Tony felt like this was a death sentence at best. He was overwhelmed, especially when she told him to take it home, and that if it helped him he could keep it. He didn’t get “homework” a lot but this was like a big project, read the book and figure out if he could relate to what it told him. Sensing that he was shutting down she pleasantly concluded the meeting and allowed him to leave, reminding him of his next appointment in two weeks before he left with the book tucked under his arm and the hood of his sweatshirt up to protect him from being recognized. He hardly paid attention the whole ride home, eager to get to the penthouse and zip through this book to prove that he was fine, this wasn’t it. He skipped the common areas and shuffled into his private living room, curling up on the couch with a soft throw on his lap. He stared at the book for a few moments before sighing and opening it up, diving straight in.

He already hated it. The first page of Chapter 1 and he wanted to throw the book from the roof of the tower and pretend he never walked out of Sarah’s office with it. He could replace it, have a new copy sent right to her office, but he knew that this was only meant to help.

_Any doubts that may arise regarding the correct diagnosis with these people during a hospital stay will increase if the patient’s behavior is observed, due to their great capacity for mimicry and their desperate attempts to find an identity (their own identity). This leads them take the group of patients they have just joined as a reference (e.g., anorexia) and start copying and manifesting their symptomatology. When they leave the hospital, they often carry this new and false identity with them. This creates a paradox of identity: Now she knows what she has. Now she feels like someone. She finally knows who she is… (being anorexic is better than being nobody)._

Closing the book quietly but forcefully, Tony tossed it on the coffee table before curling into a ball. One page in and he was already supremely unsettled by what it had to say. Fingers twitching and curling into fists he sat and shifted and stared for what felt like hours. The air was still and quiet, and his head hurt with the echo of a thousand voices screaming because they couldn’t do anything else. Sighing and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, Tony tried to unclench his jaw and relax.

Recovery, or whatever option was available to him for...this, was going to fucking suck.


End file.
